


Immaterial Objections

by LilyGilt (Yirry)



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Blackmail, Blow Jobs, Hidden Feelings, Humiliation, M/M, Restraints, nonconsensual blowjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 07:40:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11459073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yirry/pseuds/LilyGilt
Summary: Fusco's least favourite anti-hero uses - and gains - leverage over him. (Early-canon AU.)





	Immaterial Objections

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Babie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Babie/gifts).



Fusco comes to in a dimly lit room, sitting in a chair, his neck screeching in pain because his head's been lolling down to his chest.

"Sorry about this," says a far-too-smooth, far-too-familiar voice, "but I need a little material."

Because his captor already knows he's awake, Fusco doesn't bother playing dead. He does the best equivalent he can of rubbing his neck, which is rubbing it against the top of the chair. Hell, it even helps.

He squints at the Man in the Suit, who is standing in front of him, wearing, ludicrously, a domino mask. "That's nice," he says. "Your first assignment, Incognito 101."

The Man in the Suit gives a little bit of a _heh_. Fusco doesn't. You're a dead man walking in the world he lives in if you laugh at your own jokes. Also, this isn't funny. He doesn't remember what time it is. He doesn't remember what day it is. He doesn't remember if he was supposed to do something with Lee. He actually doesn't hate the Man in the Suit. But if the Man in the Suit has made him miss out on something with Lee...

That's a surge of nausea and shame, though, not a surge of rage. It's not anything anyone can use.

"Like I said," the Man says. "Extra material."

Oh, fuck, he's unzipping his pants. His cock is out. What is this. Fusco knows what this is.

"Am I supposed to give you a little kiss," he says. It isn't a question. He looks right, looks left, and yes, there's the shine of a security camera. 

"Appearance's sake," the Man in the Suit agrees. He's mostly flaccid. Fusco's relieved. A little tiny bit insulted, but mostly relieved.

He's always had a mouth on him, and it leads him to say, "So what about you suck on _my_ dick, huh. Least you can do."

There's a pause. It's an awful pause. It allows Fusco to hear what he just said. Really strains his face, not to react to himself.

The Man's smooth voice says, "That's a fair point."

"I didn't mean that," Fusco says, nakedly, uselessly. The Man is already getting to his knees, down between Fusco's own knees and his ankles that are tied apart. In the full view of the recording camera, he gets Fusco's pants down, and Fusco can't honestly do anything about it except for a few useless jerks of his chair that (he hopes) gives the camera a slightly worse view of what's going on.

"Easy," the Man says, along with a breath up Fusco's balls, and Fusco shudders.

Just a lick around the head, and the Man swallows Fusco's cock all the way down, and Fusco is trying not to think about this too much, trying not to think about this at all, which is bad, because all that's left is sensation, and the sensation is _good_. It should not fucking _be_ this good. This _fucker_ , who can fellate Fusco like he was born into the trade, and kick him into next week, and sidle up into Fusco's life... And some of the time Fusco can admire someone like the Man in the Suit, who gets the drop on him like there was no other conclusion, and sometimes he hates this guy from the tarry bottom of his pitch-black soul, and sometimes he wishes he could goddamn make up his mind.

He's making noises instead. Goddamn filthy noises. Even little tiny ones echo in this dump of a cellar of a place. 

The Man licks and sucks and licks, like Fusco's fucking sweat-soaked cock, in boxers he pulled on for the second or maybe the third day, is delicious, and he turns his head sideways and scrapes his teeth across Fusco's balls, and every now and then Fusco catches a glimpse of his eyes glittering under that mask, and all Fusco can do with any of that is to tilt his head back and close his own eyes, a different kind of playing dead. Fuck him. Fuck the Man in the Suit. Fuck him. Which Fusco is apparently doing, at least if _being_ fucked with his _mouth_ counts. Just _fuck_ this guy.

He's building up towards satisfaction, despite his anger, despite his nausea, coaxed onwards by that firm, assured tongue. He can feel himself lean fucking _forwards_ , against the cords and the plastic ties, and then he's gushing out into the Man in the Suit's mouth and the Man in the Suit - his eyes unexpectedly closed - is swallowing down. The touch, the tongue lingers, long past comfort. Fusco shudders again, involuntarily but so violently he could imagine he's shaking him off.

The Man in the Suit rocks back on his heels. "Good," he says, like he's forgotten what script he's reading off.

"You could make the next best thing to an honest living out of that," Fusco says, with a lethal concentration of sarcasm. "Too bad you charge so much."

"Mm," the Man says. Fuck him for looking blissful. Fuck him whether or not he's playing to the camera. And then, "Knew you'd go down easy," and Fusco spits at him. Gets a nice big gob on the Man's suit jacket. The Man steps back.

"I might not have to use it, you know," the Man says, after a pause. "The material. Depending if you play along." 

"What's that supposed to mean," Fusco says. Not a question again.

"We'll see," the Man non-answers.

It doesn't mean anything good. He's sure of that.

A pause, while the Man in the fucking Suit catches his breath.

"It's 7:17 PM," the Man says, because people who have all the power can afford to be generous. "Tuesday. Just in case you weren't sure. I'll slide these scissors over by your ankle, and you can walk out of here by eight at the latest. We're near 21st St. I doubt I'll use this place again."

"Thanks," Fusco says, and then regrets it, because it didn't come out with nearly as much loathing as it should have.

"Be seeing you, Fusco," the Man says, and he gets up and goes.

The first thing Fusco does is breathe, and the second thing he does is cut his way free, and the third thing he does is pull his goddamn pants up, and the fourth thing he does is take the scissors and stand on the chair and stab the hell out of that security camera lens.

It's a point he's making to himself. Doesn't matter that it's far too late to make it to anyone else.


End file.
